Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.
I don't wake up in the morning. Waking would imply that sleeping had occurred, and it had not. I don't sleep on the night before the Reaping. I have not since my first baby reached his twelfth year. I keep vigil on the night before the day when he might be taken from me by something beyond my ability to control. I let the darkness and the quiet sound of my family's breathing be the only witnesses to the fears that I do not let them see in the light of day. This is the seventh year that I have kept this watch, and it will be the last time that I do so for him. Next year, his brother will take his place as the focus of my vigil (then my baby boy and finally my only girl). By the time they have all gotten beyond the reach of this particular threat, I may have a brief respite before I keep vigil for another generation. I may not. I may not be here to keep my vigil. I don't dwell on the thought, but I have no illusions about the reality of life in District 12.
The focus of my worries on this day is already gone from the house before I detach Posy's arms from around my own and move to cobble together breakfast for my little ones. He thinks he slipped out without anyone noticing. He thinks he wakes before us all. On a normal day, he might be right. Not today. He often slips out of the house before his siblings are up. He never wakes me to tell me that he is going. I don't ask him to. He lives and breathes for his brothers and sister. Their welfare should not have been his burden, but it is. He chooses them every day of his life. If the privacy of unquestioned mornings are all he asks in return, that is the least that I can give him. He doesn't need to tell me where he is going anyway. I always know. He is in his woods. I should refer to them as the woods, but that preposition hasn't set correctly in my head for nearly four years now. The woods are his. They are his refuge. His place. His means of being who he is. This should make me worry. The woods are, after all, off limits to those of us who live within the confines of District 12. For our own safety, of course. The Capital is awfully concerned about keeping us safe from all those things that dwell within the woods.
Gale in the woods is not on the list of things which make me worry. I can remember a time when the thought of a child of mine chancing such a thing would have been cause for far more than mere worry. I can remember a time when rules were strictly enforced and punishments were swift and severe. This time is lax. The Peacekeepers themselves care more for what my child can bring them than they do about the laws he breaks to get it to them. There are dangers, but they are minor in comparison to other threats my children face. I am happy that Gale has something that is his.
He left earlier than usual today. He will be looking for something to trade. He will want to make this day special. It lays on him – those forty-two slips of paper on which his name is written, the twenty bearing hers, even the one belonging to her sister. He doesn't say it to me; I can only hope he says it to her. He knows, even if he never admits it out loud, that even one is too many. She will be meeting him in his woods. He can talk there. He can say the things which he holds in too tightly while within the confines of the fence that marks the boundaries of our home. I know he does by the way he comes home from days with her less tense, less wound, as if some of the heaviness that rests upon his shoulders has lifted for a bit. I am happy that he has her. She makes him feel less alone. He was suspicious of her at first; I suspect she was equally so of him. She's hard to read sometimes – that Katniss Everdeen.
In whatever way it happened, the two have bonded now. They share the burden of oldest children thrust too early into too much responsibility for younger siblings. They both make the little ones their world. I worry, sometimes, if either one or both of them will someday learn to resent their missed childhoods. I have to remind myself that, in this place, we all have our worries far younger than we should.
I remember waiting for the Reaping each year. I remember the way the tally of your entries would replay through your head as the days counted downward. I remember the guilty start that took you over for each of seven years when you realized the first emotion that registered each time the name was not your own was relief and not sympathy. The children of the Districts know what it is to know that life can be short. They see hunger, they see accidents, and they see the Games. You grow up thinking that you know what worry is. Then, you have children of your own.
You learn what worry really means. So, I keep my vigil. Each year, from now until perhaps the rest of my life, I will keep watch through the night into the early hours of the morning. It accomplishes nothing of practical purpose. It won't spare my children's inclusion. It won't guarantee their safety. It won't end the way things are. I do it anyway. It is my acknowledgement that the day isn't normal. It is my reminder that this day is not the way that things should be. It's foolish. It's even wasteful (who doesn't take advantage of the opportunity to sleep when they can). I won't make myself stop. I need my ritual of this night the way my Gale needs his woods.
When he arrives home, he isn't calm. Something has nettled him. I suspect I know what it is when I see that he has brought back strawberries. On this day with his nerves raw, he is willing to take offense at nearly anything. It's a habit his father had – the wanting to pick a fight to make himself feel better. Either the Undersee girl didn't take the bait, or Katniss shushed him before he could get going. I'm pleased. He should know better. He should know to save it for his woods. On any other day, he does.
Despite his poor mood, everyone is fed and clean and dressed and ready to leave in a timely manner. We walk to the square, and Gale leaves us to check himself in with the Peacekeepers. I usher the children to a place close to the front beside the rope dividers. It makes me feel less at a loss if I can see him clearly. During the reading of our history, I watch my son. He is doing his best to look above it all, but I know him well. I see the smile he gives Posy when she catches his eye. At four, she doesn't understand yet what is happening, and he wants to keep it that way. I see the reassuring look he sends over his shoulder at Prim. This is her first year, and she looks frightened. I know that same look meant to instill confidence will appear next year directed at Rory on his first Reaping Day.
There is some commotion involving the arrival of our only living victor, but I don't pay it any mind. Everyone is District 12 knows what to expect from Haymitch Abernathy. I, instead, watch as Gale shakes his head and with a single look quells his brothers into staring abashedly at the ground (they were kicking at each other's ankles). I watch him look back into the group of 16s and make eye contact with Katniss. His face is turned away from me, and I cannot see his expression. I see hers though, as he turns back to the front, and I know he wasn't able to muster up the reassurance he found for Prim. There is a reason my boy has nearly all acquaintances instead of friends. Once he has let someone in, he thinks that he's responsible for them. On most days, I still can't decide whether I believe it's his best trait or his worst.
The woman from the Capital is calling out the first name, and my heart breaks a little in response. Some for the girl, some for the family, but mostly for my son who I know will take this badly. The girl that is called is Primrose Everdeen.
